


A Perfect Cup of Tea

by HeartOfAspen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 03:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartOfAspen/pseuds/HeartOfAspen
Summary: How does one determine their perfect cup of tea?





	A Perfect Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Alpha love to Witches-Britches (FFN).  
> Beta appreciation to I_was_BOTWP.

If there was one thing Hermione could control over the years of change, it was brewing her tea to perfection.

A proper brew could - for a little while, at least - cast off the years of explaining to her children why their father had chosen to attend a Quidditch match, rather than spend time with them on their birthdays. It could ward off the grim feeling of increasing regret over marrying one of her best friends so as not to have a child out of wedlock. It lessened the pain of having elderly parents, alive and deteriorating, who would never remember her, or know their grandchildren.

It helped with the stinging soreness that came from nearly two decades of being repeatedly shot down by the bureaucratic goons that still controlled the Ministry, as she -  _ still _ \- attempted to wrestle equal rights for house elves out of them. A perfectly brewed cuppa had even eased the dull ache of serving divorce papers to the often-absent father of both her children after finding out that he had only married her in the first place because his mother had essentially forced him to.

The list went on.

Not that there had not been joys, as well as disappointments - it was just that when things were going well, it somehow mattered slightly less how she took her tea. Or, maybe it was the other way around… perhaps if she  _ preempted _ the bad days with tea, things were going to be okay…

Having arrived at her little tea shop, hidden away in a nook toward the back end of Diagon Alley, she paused outside for a moment to gaze up at the sign above the crooked door. Like the rest of the establishment, it was shabby and in desperate need of a paint job. A well-established cobweb stretched from the wrought iron sign hanger all the way to the brick side of the building. With a deep sigh at the prospect of spending her afternoon alone at a dilapidated tea shop, plugging away at spreadsheets for work, she pushed past the broom that was sweeping itself along the front stoop, and opened the door.

At first, the barista was nowhere to be seen. There were no other patrons at the moment, despite being 11:30 in the morning on an otherwise-busy Saturday. But then, this little shop was often deserted.

As she waited, Hermione busied herself by taking note of the different types of teas available for purchase and trying to decide which blend might possibly be able to help her fix today’s disappointment. These were displayed in enormous glass jars all along the countertop. Some were teas that could also be found in the Muggle world: white, green, Earl Gray, lemon-ginger, Assam, Lapsang Souchong… But others were magical blends, such as one that was imbued with a Calming Draught, or another that produced steam that could take on the shapes of various animals or omens. Yet another was a pricey variety selling for three galleons a bag, and was meant for Beltane celebrations as it contained the crushed-up bark from all nine sacred woods. This one almost seemed to be taunting her in its jar, because it was most definitely out-of-season in September - though that was not a surprise to her, at this establishment.

Across the cobbled street was another café, all teeming with patrons retrieving a late-morning caffeine fix, or else purchasing boxes of assorted biscuits. It was cheerfully decorated and full of life; a young witch and wizard were openly flirting at one of the outdoor tables. Hermione turned away. She and  _ Ron _ had used to frequent that café when they were young and in (something like) love…

.

_ The train’s whistle sounded again, a warning that the Hogwarts Express would be leaving shortly. Hermione glanced up at the enormous clock at the center of the platform. 10:45. _

_ “Dad isn’t coming, is he?” said a quiet voice to her right. _

_ Her head whipped around. Rose, who was fifteen and a new prefect this year, had narrowed her eyes and was searching her mother’s face. They both knew the answer, but she still replied, “There’s time yet.” _

_ “Right. I’m going to go find a compartment.” _

_ A moment later, Rose was gone, her wild, red locks bouncing behind her just as Hermione’s did. To her left, Ginny had witnessed the entire exchange; the women shared dark looks but said nothing. _

_ Hugo, who was about to start his second year, raced across the platform back toward them. He was red-faced and panting, but smiling, as he had met up with some of his friends on the other side of the platform and had to hurry back over. Hermione’s heart broke a little when her son’s eyes searched the immediate area surrounding them for Ron. It was not hard to see the moment in his eyes when he realized his father was not there. _

_ “Ron did say he was coming, right?” Ginny queried in an undertone as Hugo approached. _

_ “Repeatedly,” Hermione answered, terse. A little piece of her heart - which had been bruised and battered so many times over the past two decades that she really only allowed room in it for her children any longer - broke. _

_ “Where’s Dad?” _

_ The thing was, while Rose had come to expect this by now, Hugo was consistently crushed. Always hopeful, intensely loyal, he was a quintessential Hufflepuff. When Ron had been told his son would be wearing a yellow-and-black uniform tie for his seven years at Hogwarts, his reaction had been… negative. To say the least. _

_ Harry approached them, having been scouring the platform for Ron as well, to no avail. Hermione wondered why they even bothered at this point. Surely, they had all known he was not going to show. Meanwhile, Albus and Lily were craning their necks and looking over the crowd of heads - Al for his best friend, and Lily at everything, as she would be attending Hogwarts next year. _

_ For a minute, Harry and Ginny put on a show of affected cheerfulness and tried to pretend like nothing was amiss, though their strained smiles told the truth. Hermione grit her teeth, disgusted by the display and refusing to play along. She was only a few seconds away from exploding that there was no use pretending that Ron’s behavior was okay, when she was stopped by the approach of Draco Malfoy and his son. _

_ “Potter,” the wizard greeted quietly. _

_ Malfoy’s son, Scorpius, was in the same year as Albus and the two were fast friends in Slytherin. The pale, blond boy was the spitting image of Draco; meanwhile, Albus bore an uncanny resemblance to Harry. The two boys rushed over to one another and then away, already speaking in low voices over Merlin-knew-what-things thirteen-year-old boys got up to these days. _

_ “Hey, Malfoy,” Harry answered. Despite their intense schoolboy rivalry, the two had become friendly in the past handful of years, mainly because of their children. “Scorp have a nice summer?” _

_ “Other than the fact that it was his first one without his mother around, yes. He’s been doing well with her death, considering.” _

_ These days, Draco Malfoy looked an awful lot like his own father. He had grown out his strikingly blond hair to his shoulders and tied it back with a cord, which would have looked ridiculous on any number of other men, but not on him. Tall and perpetually poised, he had grown into a man decades ago, but it still continued to surprise Hermione anyway. She never knew what to do with herself when Malfoy was around. She never knew what to say, how to act. He was always polite during their brief, infrequent interactions - but still, it was embarrassing to know that Harry or Ginny must have told him she and Ron had divorced. Both her children were a perfect amalgamation of their parents, bearing unruly, red curls, crooked grins, an overabundance of freckles, and her brown eyes. Hermione did not like appearing the fool to someone like Malfoy, who always appeared unruffled. _

_ It was almost preternatural, how Ginny could sense all this. She took Hermione off slightly to the side, while Harry and Draco made small talk. _

_ The whistle sounded again, this time its final warning. Still crestfallen, Hugo wandered back for a customary kiss on top of his head and a wish from his mother that he have a good semester, adding that she would see him for Christmas. Rose stood in the doorway of one of the train compartments, already dressed in her robes and Gryffindor tie, a shiny prefect badge pinned to her chest. She merely glanced her mother’s way, then disappeared back into the compartment. _

_ That was new - and it stung. _

_ Though she tried to pretend this was normal, Hermione was actively fighting back tears as the train soon pulled away. Once it was gone, leaving behind only smoke, it was in a strangely high voice that she informed Ginny she was simply going to head out to the tea shop she favored in Diagon Alley to get some work done. _

_ “Listen, Hermione,” Ginny said in a low voice, taking her arm gently, “Rose knows it’s not your fault that Ron’s a wanker. She’s just being a teenager. She’ll come around…” _

_ “I have to go. I do have an awful lot of work to do.” _

_ Glancing up, she was embarrassed to find that Draco had been watching her. His face was inscrutable, but the way he looked at her with those enigmatic gray eyes, made her feel unworthy. It did not help that while twenty years and two children had aged her, he was quite possibly more handsome than ever from his impeccably tasteful wizard’s robes, even to the way he had seen Scorpius off with a subtly elegant flick of his wand to deposit his son’s trunk into the pile beside the train. _

_ The truth was, it would have been nice to have had back-up, even if it had only been the man she had been divorced from for nearly eight years... _

.

She chose a table toward the back of the shop, away from a moving painting on the wall of two doe-eyed puppies rollicking around in a field, and away from the street-side window. Finally, the barista made an appearance, though it took her another minute to approach, despite that Hermione was the only one there. Eager to take her mind off of things, she ordered an entire pot’s worth of Earl Gray, knowing it would last through several reports she was hoping to get to. The sullen waitress nodded curtly and set off again to fetch the necessary tea things.

_ Stupid Ron, _ Hermione thought uncharitably. She had stationed herself in the one of the worn wooden chairs that wobbled the least. The unpadded seat was uncomfortable; it dug into the backs of her knees. The legs were also slightly too tall, so her feet did not quite reach the ground, which made her feel childish and undignified. Not like the thirty-seven going-on thirty-eight-year-old woman she was.

The dour waitress bustled back over, still unsmiling, to deliver the requested cup of tea leaves, along with a hot kettle which she carelessly placed directly on the table. Hermione’s attention fixated on the numerous small marks in the tabletop, where countless such kettles had burned the lacquered wood by being placed there without a trivet. After pouring hot water through the tea leaves and small strainer that balanced on the rim of her cup, Hermione took care to place the kettle back onto the table so that it lined up with one of the more prominent burn marks. Even though the staff never seemed to care, at least this way, she did not feel bad that she was making any new blemishes on the surface. After the incident with Rose on the platform, she did not think could handle any more guilt on her consciousness, whether big or small.

Despite the poor service and the uncomfortable seating, she had good reason for frequenting  _ this _ tea shop, rather than any other - and that reason was because it was very unlikely for her to be bothered here. Everyone else in the world generally preferred good service and comfortable seating, and therefore patronized more compatible establishments. Truly, the only thing this particular little shop had going for it, was that the tea was generally good… and it also was not home, which was a place that was lonely and oppressive to Hermione once Hogwarts took her children out of it.

Despite her consistent complaining that the wizarding world was still stuck in the Dark Ages, technology-wise, things  _ had _ progressed somewhat in the past twenty years. These days, her work files were compiled into a small device which Hermione kept in the pocket of her robes. It looked like an ordinary smart phone (in case of its being found accidentally by Muggles), but when she tapped it with her wand, holograms expanded outward to spread across whatever space was available, allowing her to toil away at her projects for work from the convenience of anywhere.

Clearing some space on the table, she set the device down and tapped it. Spreadsheets and reports sprang outward before settling on the table for her perusal. Hermione noticed several new ones had been uploaded since the previous evening and she wondered, with some bitterness, who had been adding to her work-pile on a Friday night.

After waiting exactly three-and-a-half minutes for the correct amount of steeping time, she removed the strainer and tea leaves from her cup. Taking an experimental sip to test how robust the flavor was before augmenting it with additives, her shoulders sagged in relief.  _ Thank Merlin… _

She set the teacup down on her saucer, spread the cloth napkin out onto her lap, and was about to reach for the caddy across from her that held all the sweeteners, when the bell to the tea shop door tinkled, signaling the arrival of another person. Her eyes glanced up… and she froze.

“Granger?”

It was Draco.

“Malfoy,” she greeted curtly, the debacle at Kings’ Cross still staining her mind.

To her utter bafflement, he merely quirked a pale eyebrow at her as if sizing her up, before crossing the room and sliding into the seat opposite her. Everything about him looked out of place for the establishment: his robes were too expensive, his hair too neat, his pale features too much like expertly carved marble… meanwhile, the chair was too wobbly, the table too scratched, and the kettle had a chip in the spout.

“What are you doing?” she blurted out.

His eyes made it clear that her obvious discomfort only amused him. “Are you going to drink that tea, or are you attempting to find out how long it takes for it to go cold?”

She could only stare at him. As if that were any kind of answer.

Taking initiative, he flicked his wand and her teacup levitated across the table to land in front of him instead. The irrational part of Hermione’s mind immediately jumped to the worst.

_ Don’t be absurd, Hermione _ , she chided herself. What was he going to do? Sneer at her choice in tea?

Her lightly steaming cup now held up in front of him, he took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of black tea and bergamot. Then, reaching out, his fingers hovered over the tea shop’s collection of sweeteners and additives in the caddy. The sugar bowl desperately needed to be refilled, which Draco tutted over.

Like magic, the barista suddenly appeared. Flashing the younger witch something that hardly even counted as a smile, he requested some more sugar to fill the dish, and she scampered off immediately to retrieve it. Annoyed that Malfoy was receiving much better service than she usually got, Hermione silently fumed when the waitress returned post-haste with a full sugar bowl and a wide smile. In fact, she seemed intent on hanging around to flirt with Draco, despite that there likely was at least a decade or more of difference in their ages. He had to dismiss her by requesting a cup of his own and a pinch of Assam leaf. Nodding vigorously, the barista commended his choice in tea, and bustled off again.

Hermione supposed she could hardly blame the girl - after all, Malfoy  _ was _ quite handsome. Still, how rude could you get? Frowning, she opened her mouth to request he return her tea, but was stopped before she even began.

“This doesn’t seem like the sort of establishment you would frequent, Granger.” Without another word, Draco measured out just slightly over half a teaspoon of sugar and stirred it in with a practiced up-and-down motion before placing the used spoon lengthwise on the saucer.

It was just the perfect amount of sweetener she usually took… but how had he known? She tried to wrack her brain for any time she might have had tea in the near vicinity of him, but came up empty-handed. More often, they were like ships passing in the night, barely making contact. Years, war, and parenthood had added something more to Malfoy, smoothing out his edges and softening his sharpness… and Harry had told her on more than one occasion that Draco was different now.

But then, weren’t they all?

Unable to tear her eyes from his hands as they again hovered over the caddy like sentient entities surveying the selection, she responded, “It’s quiet here.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that explained it. He reached for a lemon wedge and her frown deepened. Adding just a spritz, he placed the barely used slice of citrus on the saucer and began blending this flavoring, too, into her tea.

Just then, the barista reappeared with a fresh teacup for Draco, and his tea leaves, even going so far as to pour the hot water from the kettle for him. He dismissed her afterward, but Hermione was already annoyed.

“It doesn’t seem like the sort of place  _ you  _ would go, either,” she challenged.

Setting the teaspoon down again with a  _ clink  _ on the china saucer, Draco levitated her tea back across the table toward her. “It isn’t.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, she took a sip of her tea. It was bloody  _ impeccable _ , exactly how she liked it.

Even after seven years as friends and another twelve as a couple, Ron had never been able to get her tea exactly right. Harry had always been too preoccupied with other things to notice something so trivial as how someone took their tea… in fact, Hermione had been certain that there was not a soul in the world (other than herself, of course) that could prepare it properly.

But here was Draco Malfoy - of  _ all _ people - proving her wrong.

He seemed to guess at her thoughts. With a confident smirk, he queried, “Did I make it to your liking?”

“Yes,” she answered evenly, eyeing him over the rim of the cup. “But my question is-”

“...How I knew?”

“Well, yes.”

“It’s an easy enough thing to figure out when you know what to look for,” he explained, adding a dollop of honey into his own cup, along with a splash of milk. “For example,  _ you _ use sugar because you favor the sweetness, and you don’t like how varied honey can taste. You prefer things to be in a state of stasis, and honey can unbalance the flavor too easily. Sugar, on the other hand, is consistent… and you like how it lends the tea a pleasant amber color.”

“That’s… true.” Agog with interest, she nodded slowly. Her work having gone untouched, her device went into sleep mode, retracting all her reports and spreadsheets from sight. It made the table seem suddenly larger, while simultaneously more intimate.

He brought his own tea to his lips and took a sip.

Her brow furrowed deeper, and she followed suit.  _ Perhaps he’s right… about that, at least… _

“But there’s something  _ more _ to you.” He sat up straight, posture impeccable, as he held his teacup in one hand like a natural extension of his arm. Feeling somewhat inferior beside all that aristocratic ease, Hermione sat up a little straighter herself as he went on, “It's the part of you that makes you add just a tiny bit of lemon: acidic, with just a slight tang of bitterness. While present, it does not overwhelm.”

Her eyes shot up to meet his and she quickly insisted, “I'm not bitter.”

Too quickly.

He only shrugged, “That's not really any of my business.”

Taking a moment to collect her thoughts and go over what he had said, she sipped at her cup slowly. Finally, “And you?”

“What about me?”

“What does your tea say about you?”  _ Honey and a splash of milk. _

Draco looked down at his cup and took a thoughtful sip. “I'm traditional, but I have a sweet tooth, I suppose. But though honey is different depending on which bees made it, and where... it’s  _ natural _ .”

His eyes glanced up, lingering on the massive collection of curls on her head, which she had attempted to pull back into a bun, wisps of it escaping at the sides of her face, in front of her ears, and at the nape of her neck. Feeling self-conscious, she tucked a few strands behind her ear and shifted in discomfort. Noticing her small movement, his eyes then flickered to her face. She had not put on any make-up either, and she squirmed a little before sitting up in the uncomfortable chair even straighter. Rearranging the placement of her hand on the handle of her teacup, she did not want him to see the ragged ends of her fingernails where she had chewed them.

“Intriguingly,” he went on, running the pad of his thumb along the rim of his cup as he surveyed her closely, “it is not only when taking tea that I desire something more… natural.”

Silently digesting what he was saying, her cheeks colored somewhat at the possible insinuation. Deciding she was reading into things that were not there, she apologized, “Sorry, I'm afraid I don't follow.”

With a look of deep suffering, Draco rolled his eyes and muttered, “No subtlety.”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you like to go out sometime, Granger?”

She gaped at him, “ _ What _ ?”

“Well, you’ve been back on the market for nearly a decade now,” he reasoned, and though it was a rather unflattering observation of herself, the smooth way in which he said it made it not seem so harsh. “I might once have attributed that to keeping your children’s interests first in your attentions, except that they’re both of Hogwarts age now and I still see you alone.”

She was more floored than she should have been, given that he had been able to guess how she had taken her tea based only on what he observed of her from their limited interactions over the past handful of years. “But… why are  _ you  _ asking me?”

He looked uncomfortable for the first time since he had taken the liberty of sitting opposite her, uninvited. “Because as it turns out, sugar with a little bit of lemon is  _ exactly _ what I’ve been craving, for longer than I care to admit.”

Marveling at how forthcoming he was being, considering this was the most interaction they had likely ever had in their lives, Hermione was in a half-state of shock. She thought of Astoria, who had been deceased for just under a year, and who had been very sick for several years leading up to her death.

_...For longer than I care to admit… _

There were whole volumes there, but she did not even know where to start.

“I… don't know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he pressured, his eyes beseeching her. Scanning him to try determining if this were a part of a cruel joke, she noted the serious mouth with subtle lines around the edges, plus a place in his forehead where it looked like a wrinkle had started to form from frowning. Yet, there was something in his expression that was… what?

She dared to think it was gentle, indulgent… and possibly, affectionate?

Quirking an eyebrow at him, she quizzed, “What on earth would we talk about? Do we have  _ anything _ in common?”

At this, Draco laughed. The sound was so unexpected from him, Hermione began to stare again. “I suppose you will have to meet me for dinner tomorrow night to find out.”

She looked down at her tea, then back at him. After Ron, she had casually dated some, but nothing had ever gone anywhere and she soon had ceased trying. Would it hurt, going out with someone after so long? Her brain whispered that it had been  _ years _ since her last date, which was basically the same as committing oneself to a nunnery, as far as Ginny was concerned - something her friend had been sure to tell her more than once.

The imploring look in his eyes, coupled with her starved-but-hopeful heart, decided for her. “Okay, Draco. I’ll go out with you tomorrow night.”

“Excellent.” He drained his cup, then stood. Despite the easy grace with which he carried himself, Hermione thought she could detect relief coloring his voice. “I’ll pick you up at six?”

“That sounds perfect,” she agreed, smiling at him for the first time.

He held out his hand to her, and she hesitated for a moment before placing her own into his. Bringing it to his lips, he kissed the top of her fingers then dropped it. “It’s a date. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Hermione.”

After he left, the tea shop’s bell tinkling behind him, Hermione merely stared into the smooth surface of her cooling tea. She no longer noticed the uncomfortable rigidity of her chair, or the way it dug into the backs of her legs, or the burn marks in the tabletop, or the stain on the cloth napkin...

Slowly, a smile lit her features. Perhaps, as it turned out, what  _ she _ had been craving all these years, was honey with a splash of milk… and maybe, her perfect cup of tea was not quite what she thought it had been all this time either.


End file.
